


燃える/Moeru

by Beldam



Series: All Things Equal [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beldam/pseuds/Beldam
Summary: Perhaps it is better to be consumed than consoled.Uses versions of the characters from the reverse au, and takes place following  this comic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hardcore self-indulgence and mild NSFW.

Genji is not nostalgic by nature. Even when he was younger and more prone to romantics, it wasn’t his habit to look back and reflect, not even to learn. However, at the end of the day he _is_ a Shimada, and living in the past is in his blood. Which is probably why the first place he thinks to go after seeing Hanzo again is the Shinto shrine near Shimada castle: one of the few places in Hanamura where the memories of his (formerly late) brother have not been tainted by years of dutifully coddled contempt.

Most of his recollections of the shrine are from childhood—flashes of Hanzo at 8, 9, 10, 12, guiding him through crowds of locals and foreigners alike during _Shichigosan_ or _Hatsumode,_ gripping Genji’s wrist too hard but still taking the time to tell him, _hang on to me,_ and, _don’t get lost._ In middle and high school, Genji sometimes managed to get Hanzo to come along with him to pray for good grades (though Hanzo was always quick to point out that simple studying would have sufficed) and though they usually went to festivals with friends, there were a handful that they’d attended as a pair. Once they were adults, if they went together it was only because their father had made an outing of it—and when their father died, they went together one last time, praying shoulder to shoulder instead of speaking, silently commiserating over the weight of their shared grief (not that it had done them any good).

What Genji wants is for the memories to ease the wrenching feeling in his guts, to remind him that, in spite of everything leading up to _that night_ , it wasn’t _all_ bad. An infinitesimal part of him wants to be reminded that they were a family, once upon a time; that their being brothers was more than just a fact of biology. But instead, the resentment that he thought he’d laid to bed a decade ago unfurls inside him like it’s brand new, bursting from its dormancy like a cicada. 

No amount of reminiscing can cure the anger that burns through him like a fever. No amount of looking back on what he and brother once were can prevent what they eventually became.

It’s been an hour or two since Hanzo confronted him at the castle, and by now the rush of their fight has passed, leaving Genji sluggish and aching. He assesses the damage while he wanders the deserted temple grounds, fireflies blinking around his shins as he walks up and down through the oppressive midnight dark. By order of magnitude: a split lip, a swollen eye. A sprained shoulder, a rolled ankle. A few broken ribs, and a handful of fat bruises that’ll be black as pitch come morning. It’ll be several days before he’s able to sleep through the pain—several more before he’s able to walk without limping along like a wounded animal—many more after that before he’s able to shake off the discomfiting, angry itch at the base of his skull, the words that drill and pulse inside his head like burrowing ants: _Hanzo’s alive, alive, alive._ But although it would be easier, and healthier, and kinder to just lie down and rest, he wanders from building to building, circling as if he’s running laps, walking and walking until he’s almost turned around. 

He stops for a moment to reorient himself and feels the phantom squeeze of Hanzo’s hand around his wrist; he searches the night for those brown eyes that always managed to find him in a sea of unfamiliar faces, the child that disappeared long before Genji killed the man he would become. He breathes deeply and keeps going; disembodied voices trail behind.

 _Genji, hang on, hang on, hang on,_ they say. _Don’t lose sight of me. I’ll lose you if you let go now._

Genji must be walking past the steep oratory steps for the third or fourth time when he hears the coarse, hollow noise of its bell being rung, followed by two sharp claps. It takes him a moment to realize someone’s offering their prayers up there, communing with the _kami_ in the dead of night. He wonders how he failed to notice them entering the grounds, if they snuck past him deliberately or they evaded one another’s paths by simple chance. Either way, he goes still in the wake of the hidden noise, ears straining on the silence that follows; trying to eavesdrop on some stranger’s petition to the gods.

The stairs rise a ways up the hill, cutting a straight path through a cluster of trees that flower white during the spring, and at the top, the oratory seems to glow, crimson paint shimmering like a blood moon.

His ankle is killing him, and he’s not dressed for the evening chill, and he should probably call somebody to drive him back to the castle so he can get some rest and figure out how to deal with everything that’s happened tonight. But as he lingers, he feels a tiny, rasping tug inside his heart urging him up the stairs; his dragon, he supposes, sensing something at the shrine that he cannot. Desperate for any distraction he can find, he lets himself be guided by its will. As he commences his hobbled ascent, instead of fading with his acquiescence, the dragon flares within him, and an awful, aching burn expands between his lungs.

“Goddamn, what is it?” he hisses, clutching his chest, feeling sick and breathless as he comes up to the landing. “I’m doing what you want, you stupid thing. What the hell’s your—”

He reaches the last step and stops dead; the heat dissipates, but the ache does not.

Zenyatta stands before the shrine, head bowed and hands together, his back to Genji as he offers his prayers to the local god. He’s wearing a white haori over his usual kasaya and looks pale and lovely and terribly vulnerable beneath the shining moon. By himself, without his orbs, Genji can’t help but think Zenyatta’s put himself in danger by being here. But then it occurs to him that they are collectively the worst things in Hanamura—maybe the worst things in all of Japan. And if either of them is safe anywhere in the world, then it is here, right now, with each other.

The ninja opens his mouth—and succeeds in saying absolutely nothing.  He realizes he’s not in any state of mind speak to anyone, let alone Zenyatta—and more than that, he doesn’t want to be seen like this, knows that his miserable state can only invite judgement, which is more than he can tolerate tonight. He shifts to make a hasty retreat, pulls back, has just begun to turn when—

“Following me again, Genji?”

The voice, smooth and low, arrests him on the step. The omnic has not moved a fraction of a centimeter from when the ninja first saw him, but suddenly Genji feels ensnared by his presence, trapped as if physically gripped by one of those perfectly crafted hands.

For a brief moment, Genji entertains the idea of trying to run off anyway. But he knows he wouldn’t get far before slinking back with his tail between his legs, desperate for someone (anyone) to lick his wounds—or at least make new ones, ones that are deeper and uglier and bloodier as to distract from the pain of those that came before. 

“Following you?” Genji says, trying to sound playful. Instead, his words come out dry and tight, as if he’s been crying; he clears his throat. “When have I ever done anything like that?”

“Mm,” the omnic hums wryly. “When indeed.”

Genji works his jaw as he attempts to come up with some clever way to respond. He has no idea how he’s managed to hold conversations with Zenyatta in the past; the omnic isn’t even looking at him and he feels star-struck and stupid, incapable of intelligible speech. He’s grateful Zenyatta’s focus is elsewhere, giving him time to collect himself, though he’s confident that will do absolutely nothing to save him.

While Genji’s tongue flounders, his eyes wander. Usually he is too caught up in Zenyatta’s words to fully appreciate his physicality, but in their newfound silence, he cannot help but be taken by how beautiful he is. The dark lines of his exposed ankles; the crimson slide of wires down the nape of his neck; the bounce and shatter of light against his gold accents, casting star-like marks upon the pale folds of his haori.

He sniffs, briefly annoyed that the omnic is more covered than he usually is. Genji’s never seen Zenyatta with anything over his robe, and it’s odd to see so little of him exposed. Even so, the haori suits him. Simple but elegant, just like the rest of him. Although when he thinks about it, Genji can’t discern why he bothered to wear it now when he never has before. It’s a little brisk out, but that shouldn’t matter to an omnic; then again, Genji’s never considered that they might be as sensitive to the temperature as organics.

For the first time, he wonders if Zenyatta’s body prickles and burns in the cold the same way a human’s does. If Genji reached out and peeled back the collar of his haori, exposed the smooth line of his shoulder to the crisp night air, would Zenyatta shiver? If he pressed his icy fingers down the pale slats of Zenyatta’s mechanical spine, would he twist and pull away? If he breathed against the shining pistons of his neck, would the sudden heat of it upon the icy metal be like fire against his throat?

“Do you feel the cold?” Genji doesn’t so much ask the question as have it fall out of him. He flushes (it’s a stupid thing to say, even by his standards) but winds up surprised when Zenyatta doesn’t take the opportunity to chide him for his admitted ignorance.

Instead, he just answers with a mild, “I do.”

The ninja steels himself—even if it makes him seem like a fool, he wants to know. “What’s it like? To you, I mean.”

Zenyatta’s head shifts ever so slightly. Genji can see the shimmer of his nine lights making a weak blue halo around his forehead. “Unpleasant,” comes the reply.

Genji gives a vague nod of agreement. He doesn’t like the cold either; he prefers warm nights. Warm summers. Warm bodies. Heat that overwhelms and does not fade.

Something sparks in his core like kindling—he takes a step forward, pauses, rocks his weight off his bad ankle. Takes another step, another, another, until he’s so close to the omnic’s back that if he leaned up a little it would bring his lips in contact with the wires of his neck; Zenyatta’s head tips slightly forward at his approach, lengthening the line of his spine as if to invite that very thing.

Star-struck, stupid, as if he’s never done this before—grateful Zenyatta’s not looking at him and can’t see the shambles that he’s in—more cowardly than he’s ever been, but acting much braver than he feels—Genji reaches out and slides his arms around Zenyatta’s slender waist. He exhales heavily and pulls in close; his chest is flush with the omnic’s back, and he struggles to inhale.

“What about that?” he asks breathlessly.

Zenyatta gives a contented hum that leaps through Genji like electric current. “Better.” There’s a pause, and Genji feels the omnic’s palms slide from his elbows and down his wrists; he knows what’s coming before Zenyatta’s even said it. “Your hands are injured.”

Genji rests his cheek against Zenyatta’s back. “Oh, weird. Wonder how that happened.”

He bites back a hiss of pain when the omnic presses along his knuckles, threatening to work open the scabs. “You were in a fight.”

“Was I?” He lowers his voice so it’s harder to hear that he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “Don’t remember.”

Zenyatta takes Genji’s wrists and unwinds his arms from his body so he can turn to look at him. Genji doesn’t always have the easiest time reading robots, but Zenyatta in particular is inscrutable in the extreme. Which is why the immense stillness that comes over him when he sees the state Genji’s in is so utterly unsettling. It is impossible to tell what he’s feeling, but it’s surreal to be so cognizant of the fact he is feeling _something._

“Sorry,” Genji smiles self-consciously, forcing himself to hold eye-contact despite the pressure of the omnic’s scrutiny. “Didn’t have time to put on any make up before I got out this morning.”

The joke does nothing to lighten the mood. It’s enough to make Zenyatta remember himself, though; it is impossible to pinpoint exactly what changes, but suddenly the omnic is a closed book, revealing nothing, as if he’s just set something inside himself to _off_.

“Who did this to you?” he asks. His voice is carefully neutral.

“Why? You going to beat them up for me if I tell you?”

The second joke goes as unappreciated as the first. In a single smooth motion, Zenyatta reaches up to run his hands down Genji’s face, the points of his fingertips tracing loose shapes against the damaged skin. When he comes down to Genji’s mouth, he feathers his thumb across it before pressing deliberately hard against the ninja’s split bottom lip; Genji snarls and tries to squirm away, but the omnic is stronger than him and keeps him rooted in place.

“Quite the contrary,” Zenyatta says, his tone curling with amusement. “The bruises suit you. I’d like to send the artist my regards.”

At that, Genji allows a low, dark laugh. Immediately, pain splinters around his ribs. He tells himself not to do that again.

“You know, I…” he begins. He doesn’t finish, doesn’t even know what he meant to say. He wants to be able to explain himself, what he’s doing here—he wants to put words to everything he’s feeling and have someone understand. He knows Zenyatta is the wrong person to ask from the jump (confiding in him is no different than spilling his guts to a vulture, foolishly expecting compassion when all it sees in him is meat), but even if he wasn’t, where could Genji possibly begin? How could any of this make sense to anyone that isn’t him? “You…” He starts gingerly, ordering his thoughts like he sometimes has to do when he’s translating English out of Japanese. “You have a brother, don’t you? In Nepal.”

It’s the first time Genji has ever broached the topic of Zenyatta’s history, though in retrospect he’s not sure why. It’s not as if it’s some big secret; even with all the resources Genji has at his disposal, most of what he knows about the omnic could be discerned by anyone with a working internet connection. Even so, he senses a subtle shift in Zenyatta’s demeanor, but from what to what is anybody’s guess.

“I have many brothers and sisters in Nepal.”

It takes real effort to keep from rolling his eyes. He should have predicted the omnic would go for such a complete and utter non-answer, but it still frustrates him.

“Tekhartha Mondatta—the leader of the Shambali,” he says more directly, unwilling and unable to entertain any of Zenyatta’s usual equivocating. “He’s one of them, isn’t he?”

Zenyatta moves his hand from Genji’s face onto his body. He glides his palms up his sides and fingers his ribs one by one, testing them for give. “So he is.”

“But you abandoned him.”

Genji yelps when Zenyatta presses down against something badly broken. The omnic withdraws incrementally, gives a quiet tut, and then moves on.

“I did not abandon him,” he says after a bit. “We could not reconcile our points of view and so we went our separate ways. That is all.”

Genji swallows tightly when the omnic’s finger traces the outline of a rib that had been bothering him even before the fight. “Do you hate him?”

“No.”

“He’s your enemy.”

“He is not my—”

“Would you kill him?” the ninja interrupts. “If it meant getting him out of your way?”

There are probably other, better things that he could ask, but he wants to provoke some reaction in the omnic that makes actual, human sense to him. He wants terribly to see some sliver of himself, of his anger and resentment, in this machine. His gaze flicks across the teal lights, the white plating, the glimmering golden marks, but Zenyatta’s placid faceplate is as impenetrable as any mask; he sees nothing.

“No,” the omnic says. He sounds infuriatingly calm. “Of course not.”

Genji presses, “What do you mean by that? ‘Of course not.’”

Zenyatta’s hands have gone still against his body. His palms rest gently against the space where Genji’s shoulders become his chest.

There is barely-hidden mockery in his voice when he speaks again. “What I mean is that, in spite of what you might believe, it is not such a simple thing to kill one’s own brother.” He tips his head forward and the gold beneath his eyes glitters with imperious light. “What I mean is that we cannot all be like you—so eager to cannibalize our own ilk.”

The words strike Genji like a lash. Out of all the things that Zenyatta has ever said to him, all the moments of deliberate cruelty, he has never been gouged so deeply. Star-struck, stupid, he knows that even if his head was straight he would not be able to think of a single thing that could hurt Zenyatta half as effectively as the omnic has done without even trying.

Face burning, teeth bared, the ninja settles for a crude alternative: “Fuck off.”

Zenyatta steps abruptly into his space, and Genji retreats instinctively. He’s barely gone three steps before he’s reached the edge of the landing and Zenyatta looms over him, their bodies so close that their clothes touch whenever Genji’s chest rises to breathe. The flat of his heel presses over air—if Zenyatta took one more step he’d be sent hurtling off the edge.

“I would caution you to modulate your tone, _Shimada_ ,” the omnic murmurs, and the use of his family name, as little a thing as it is, makes him feel as if he’s been incised. It is infuriating to feel this _helpless_ , to be this lost so many times in a single night. He is—he has become—has never felt so _weak_. This is not a fight he can win, but he still puts up a token effort, if only because pride prevents him from quitting while he’s ahead.

“ _Make me._ ”

His body goes rigid when Zenyatta’s hand rises at his side. He wonders what would happen if he hit him in earnest. He’d probably wind up knocked out or concussed—or dead, more likely than anything. Maybe the omnic will do what Hanzo should have done earlier that night, finish what was started hours (no— _years_ ) before.

Genji grits his teeth and doesn’t look away, rolling the dice, spinning the barrel. He stands firmly in place and braces himself for the blow, expects it to come at any second—and his breathing hitches when, instead of striking him, the omnic hooks his palm against the back of his neck and draws him against his chest. He pulls in a shaky, startled breath as he stumbles into the embrace, and his head swims with the smell of Zenyatta’s clothes, the scent of sweet incense and fallen dew, concurrently sacred and profane.

Zenyatta’s tone softens—any hint of threat evaporates, leaving only a heady rumble behind.

“And how would you have me do that?” the omnic says, simulating a whisper. His voice reverberates in his chassis, thrumming through Genji’s ribs into his spine. “‘Make you,’ that is.”

Genji’s fingers twist in the folds of that white haori, simultaneously holding fast and barely hanging on. _Don’t get lost, don’t get lost_ , says the Hanzo of twenty years ago, but the advice, rarely obeyed even when it was first offered, is all but forgotten now—and Genji is lost, is lost, is lost in Zenyatta’s voice, the cool press of his hand, the hard lines of his body.

He sinks forward, giving himself over entirely. He has been completely overthrown.  

“I don’t know,” he manages to rasp.

“Is that right,” says Zenyatta. “Well, if there is some internal cause, it can in all likelihood be remedied. After all, this is a sacred place. Perhaps there is some way you could be purified.”

The tempo of Genji's breathing quickens when he feels Zenyatta slide his fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. He shakes his head weakly.

“Not possible,” he says. “Not for me.”

The omnic gives a thoughtful hum. “Then would you like to offer an alternative? If you can’t be purified, what options does that leave?”

The answer comes from the depths of Genji, as if he’d been waiting for Zenyatta to ask since the pair of them first met. He gasps around the words, the way they twist and arch upon his tongue like smoke. “Destroy me.”

He inhales sharply when Zenyatta twines his fingers in his hair, expecting the omnic to yank him back by his ponytail—but the tug he receives is gentle, just hard enough to coax him into angling back his head.

“Mmm…” Zenyatta ghosts the claw-like tips of his fingers down Genji’s cheek, against his throat. His hand closes briefly around his neck—and though he applies no pressure, Genji feels breathless all the same. “Is that what you want, Genji?” the omnic asks. Genji’s heart thunders at the cool press of the omnic’s faceplate against the base of his jaw, the seam’s hard edge feeling almost knifelike as it works upon his skin. “To be destroyed?”

An awful prickle wells in Genji’s eyes, a pain that sinks and spreads and probably will not heal.

“Yes.” He trembles at the feeling of the omnic’s hands pushing up against his shoulderblades before slowly dragging low. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes.”

\---

Zenyatta takes Genji on the shrine step.

The ninja lies back on the stone as his body is rocked against the landing, the omnic’s haori all that separates him from the cold press of the earth. His injuries and fatigue prevent him from moving as much as he usually would, but Zenyatta effortlessly makes up for the deficit, has him whimpering and moaning beneath him with his every push and stroke.

At intervals, Zenyatta leans down close to him, presses the seam of his faceplate against the shell of his ear to whisper little encouragements— _that’s it, my darling, that’s right. You’re so beautiful like this. So beautiful—_ and Genji is speechless in turn, cannot talk except to whine the fragmented syllables of the omnic’s name, _Zen-ya-tta_ , voice repeatedly broken by the slow roll of his partner’s body into his.  

He is accustomed to being manhandled by Zenyatta, but this—this uncharacteristic tenderness—completely overcomes him. Zenyatta undoes him from the inside out, sends something bright and hot twisting and snarling through him, leaving scorch marks on his soul; a pyre that purges more than purifies; a destruction far more complete than if Zenyatta had merely left marks against his flesh.

His hands curl against Zenyatta’s body like paper in a flame.

Cold starlight presses down; Genji burns.

\---

“I saw my brother today.”

Genji whispers the words against the golden diamond that marks the center of Zenyatta’s chest, his arms folded beneath his head as he rests upon the omnic’s supine body. They lie half concealed by the lip of the shrine’s roof, moonlight cutting a straight angle across their tangled legs. Zenyatta, who has seemed lost in thought until now, lowers his chin incrementally. His fingers still where they stroke at the nape of Genji’s neck.

“Your...dead brother?” the omnic ventures after a beat.

It takes hearing Zenyatta’s tone for Genji to realize how crazy he must sound—Zenyatta probably thinks he’s gone off the deep end (or returned to it, as the case may be). He’s grateful that the omnic seems willing to entertain this impossible line of thought, if only to indulge him.

Genji presses his index finger to the surface of the golden diamond. It leaves a visible smudge—he likes the idea of Zenyatta having to clean it off later. Or better yet, allowing it to stay.

“Yeah,” he says. He looks at the omnic from beneath his lashes and gives a mirthless smile. “Not as dead as I thought, I guess.”

A moment of silence passes between them. The ninja can hear something spinning in Zenyatta’s chassis—he’s thinking.  

“What happened?” he finally asks.

Genji shrugs with his good shoulder. “Not much. He showed up, we fought, he kicked my ass, gave me some spiel about forgiveness, and then I told him to fuck off.”

“You made him leave? Why?”

The question bothers Genji, but he can’t put his finger on a reason for it. He answers as best he can. “Because Hanamura belongs to me now. This isn’t his home anymore.”

“Hmm.” Zenyatta’s hand skirts along his scalp, threading through the loose strands of his hair. “Is that the only reason?”

This, Genji doesn’t answer. Neither of them say anything else for a bit, and the ninja momentarily wonders if this is the most that they’ll speak about it. He’s just about accepted that the topic’s been dropped when all of a sudden Zenyatta says, “Talk to him.”

“What?”

In painstakingly precise Japanese, Zenyatta reiterates, “You should talk to your brother.” It sounds like he’s speaking to a child.

Genji frowns. “Why do you want me to?”

“He is your only family. Surely he—”

“I said,” the ninja cuts him off, “why do _you_ want me to?”

Zenyatta pauses for a moment. There’s that spinning noise again, a little louder this time. It stops abruptly when the omnic breathes a low, simulated sigh.

“It is odd, isn’t it?” he begins, voice quiet and considering. “He came all this way to fight you, succeeded in defeating you, had you at his mercy, and yet he did not kill you. Why is that?”

“Because he’s an idiot?”

Zenyatta brushes a lock of hair from Genji’s forehead, his knuckle trailing from Genji’s brow down beneath his jaw. “Because he loves you.”

A hollow pang echoes sickeningly in Genji’s gut. “Ugh,” he mutters, gives an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “Whatever. What did I say?”

“My point being,” Zenyatta continues somewhat exasperatedly, “taking his life or sending him away is a waste. If you don’t want him alive, that’s your prerogative—but what would be the use in killing him when you could just as easily have him die for you?”

The line of reasoning seems to come easily to Zenyatta; Genji wonders if he thinks of all people’s feelings in terms of how they can and can’t be used to serve his ends. To call it pragmatic would be an understatement, but the ninja can’t deny that it makes some amount of sense.

Even if the thought of entertaining Hanzo’s delusions of fixing things between them makes his insides clench.

“That still doesn’t explain how this benefits you,” the ninja points out.

The low chuckle he receives in response makes Genji's hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“You have a valuable pawn in your midst, and I am your business partner.” Zenyatta glides the flat of one thumb up and down the ridge of Genji’s spine. He shifts forward ever so slightly, teal lights illuminating the narrow space that separates their faces. “What’s yours is mine.”

Genji lets out a shallow, disbelieving laugh that barely tempers the deep affection that simmers in his veins. He leans up, angling for a kiss; Zenyatta meets him half way, tilting his head obligingly as he presses his lips against the seam of his faceplate.

“You are, genuinely, the most terrible person I have ever met,” Genji says.

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” the omnic responds, unrepentant. Genji sucks in air when Zenyatta rolls them both to one side so that the ninja lies beneath him, legs splayed on either side of the omnic’s hips. “Though I suspect you’ve yet to see the worst of it.”

Genji wraps his arms around Zenyatta’s neck, kissing along the pistons, fogging up the gold plating on his jaw.

“Show me,” he breathes.

 The lights that mark the omnic's forehead throb, pulse-like in the dark.

“Gladly."

**Author's Note:**

> "Moeru" (燃える) is the Japanese verb meaning "to burn."
> 
> Forgive any grammatical/spelling flubs in this one or any hitches in the language. Didn't want to spend too much time agonizing over the minutia of the writing for once haha--though hopefully I'll get some time to properly proof it in the near future. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
